


enough

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Category: Batgirl (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: 'all my friends are dead or were dead at one point and are ok now' starring tim drake, Gen, Panic Attack, anxiety attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: A step by step of Tim Drake's most recent anxiety attack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this has a lot of personal experience wrapped in it

A step by step of Tim’s anxiety attacks.

\--

It starts with a memory.

With a trigger. With a thought. With a word, with a picture, with a sense of deja-vu.

It starts with something that Tim thought he’d be fine with. Something he thought—thinks, will continue to think—was manageable.

It starts with something that should be manageable but isn’t.

This time, it’s something embarrassing.

It’s a thought, an invasive thought, reminding him of the time he said the wrong thing to a friend. The time he attended a funeral and gave the wrong name of the deceased. The time he’d attended so many damn funerals that he couldn’t keep them straight anymore. The time he couldn’t hold it together when his mind was being pulled eight places at once and he couldn’t be Red Robin and Kon’s Robin and Tim Drake and Tim Wayne and Tim Drake-Wayne all at once.

It starts with a memory of a mistake. And it doesn’t take more than a second for it to turn to everything else. To turn into the memories of funerals and self-loathing—the parts of Tim that make him Tim.

The words come quickly, and on instinct.

Not good enough, _not good enough,_ notgoodenough, notgoodenough-notgoodenough-notgoodenough.

He wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. Wasn’t smart enough.

He didn’t save his best friends. He didn’t save Bart. He didn’t save Kon. He didn’t save Steph. He didn’t save Bruce. He didn’t save his dad or Dana or his mom.

He didn’t save Damian. And what’s worse, he hadn’t been there for Damian before he died.

He didn’t save Dick, either.

Not good enough.

Tim Drake Wayne Red Robin.

Tim.

Nothing.

The words go blank, and for a second he thinks the anxiety attack is over. He thinks, this is getting better. He thinks, maybe this time it’ll actually end here.

He’s wrong.

It’s not just the words—not just Tim’s most common personal mantra. It’s images. It’s Kon’s dead body, and Bart’s. It’s the devastated look on Alfred’s face when he hears Bruce is gone. It’s the grief on Bruce’s face as Bruce tells him about Damian. And Dick. And Steph. It’s the way the Manor gets quiet and Tim can’t remember if it’s quiet because no one’s home or if it’s quiet because everyone’s dead.

It’s the way reality is slipping from Tim’s fingertips because object permanence means nothing anymore. Not when death means disappearance and the title he’s worked his ass off for years gets passed down to a kid who hates him.

It’s the way Tim sees phantom images of dead loved ones and he can’t remember if they’re actually alive or not. It’s the way Tim has to double check when meeting up with friends that they’re real this time.

It’s the way he feels his cheekbones and remembers that they didn’t used to be so hollow—that the circles under his eyes didn’t used to be this dark—that he didn’t used to feel so bone-deep tired every second he was awake.

It turns into self-loathing and anger in less than a minute because that is the only emotion Tim can bring himself to feel when anxiety gets the better of him.

 _Not good enough_.

And he’s not. He knows he’s not. He knows he’s not Dick. Or Bruce. Or Kon or Steph or Bart or anyone else who feels comfortable in their skin and doesn’t have to second-guess reality.

But he’s doing his best.

Tim is allowed to be angry because anger can be useful. He’s allowed to be angry at himself, because if he’s the only target, then no one else can get in the crossfire—

And that line of thinking is so familiar, so frightening, that he isn’t sure anymore where it comes from. Does it come from dreams of taking on an army of drones—or is that a reality, a future, an altercation to the fabric of his life? Does it come from memories? Or has he gotten so used to mapping himself as the sole target that it doesn’t matter, anymore, when he started seeing himself as expendable.

Tim remembers Ra’s pushing him out of that skyscraper.

Definitely expendable _._

_Not good enough._

But he succeeded, that day—and damn it all, he’s still proud of that. Still proud that for once in his life—and maybe that should’ve been the end of it—he _succeeded_.

It turns into a rush of adrenaline, which mixes uncomfortably with the hormones already racing around in his head.

He feels his face go pale; feels the blood leave his head and appendages, rushing to his internal organs as if he’s moments from death.

He feels his heart rate pick up.

He can’t feel anything else. Can’t see anything else.

The adrenaline doesn’t last. But the cold feeling in his face and limbs does.

Tim can barely feel his fingers as he digs out his phone. Not for the first time, the only thought in his mind is that _he_ _wishes he could have spoken to Kon one last time_.

And when he sees a new missed call from his best friend, reality re-centers itself.

Tim swipes his index finger across the notification before he can second-guess himself.

He still can’t breathe, but feeling is returning in bits and pieces to his face. To his fingertips. To his toes and ankles and calves.

The voice on the other end is his lifeline, and Tim squeezes his phone almost hard enough to crack it.

_“…Tim?”_

And Tim grounds himself, categorizes because there is nothing left that he can do. He gives a dual sided interview to himself. Asks where he is (the penthouse), what time it is (eleven at night), what day of the week it is (Thursday), who is currently alive (himself, Steph, Jason, Kon, Bart, Cassie, Bruce—), and who is currently dead (Damian, Dick, his dad, his mom).

He breathes.

In, and out, and in, and out—and slows the pace until he’s within the realm of healthy oxygen intake.

“Sorry,” he says, voice careful and even, the very pinnacle of mental health. “I missed your call earlier. Did you need something, Conner?”

And Tim can’t really make out what Kon is saying. And he wants to call Dick instead, because Dick always knew what to say. But Dick is dead and Kon is not and Kon is his best friend, and—

“—so, anyways, Ma wants you to stay the weekend?” Kon continues, traitorously hopeful. Tim realizes he hasn’t heard another word of the offer. “What do you say, for old time’s sake? You’re gonna get wicked wrinkles if you keep stressing yourself like this, y’know?”

_Not good enough._

But Kon doesn’t aim to put Tim in his place or demean him. Reality continues to re-center itself, and Tim knows that he’s on his way to a clearer head.

Tim breathes in and out twice more. “Yeah,” he says, before he thinks better of it. “Pick me up whatever time you want tomorrow. I’m taking the weekend off.”

Tim can’t hear what Kon says after that. He’s got his phone hooked up to an automatic recording system for moments like these, and he knows he’ll have to listen to it later to understand what Kon’s getting at, but he knows he’s got his bases covered. So he comes up with an excuse to end the call, and he does, and after he hangs up he stares at the wall until it doesn’t look like it’s moving or five shades darker than it’s supposed to be.

_Not good enough._

It’s too much to think that the thoughts would be gone just because he talked to his best friend, he knows. There’s still that traitorous hope that springs in his chest sometimes—the hope that Tim always forgot he still had, when times got bad.

But he’s got just enough strength to argue, this time. Just enough strength to plant seeds of disquiet and anger when his head picks back up with its mantra.

Because, yeah.

Tim’s _not good enough_.

But he’s getting better.

And someday he’ll be good enough for everyone. Until then, he’s going to keep trying every day, until he either succeeds, or dies trying.

It ends with Tim deciding he likes those odds.


End file.
